


Risen From The Stones

by Blue_Sparkle



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bilbo is a doctor, Everybody is human, F/M, In The Flesh AU, M/M, Undead, alternative universe, some are alive others are undead, tags to be added when needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:17:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sparkle/pseuds/Blue_Sparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day the dead rose from their graves, caused havoc and a war, and simple civilians to take up arms to defend themselves, up until a treatment was created which made them as close to normal as was possible. They are nearly exactly as they were before, only that they are now Partially Deceased.</p><p>Things are supposed to be fine, but not all living can forgive and not all undead are welcomed with open arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the series 'In the Flesh' and will mostly be about the members of Thorin's company dealing with various aspects of the undead existing. I will do my best to set the mood and explain the world building of the series, so that you can read without having watched, and there should be no spoilers for the actual events of the show as the plot won't follow their story. Lets just say that this is no zombie story as such
> 
> tags, warnings as well as characters and relationships will be added as the story goes on

“Absolutely not!”

“Now there, old friend, you know that this is the perfect opportunity to get out of this village, out into the world, where people _need_ your skills. Don’t let the chance go to waste.”

Bilbo sat in his favourite armchair, his favourite comfortable cushions arranged around him just like he liked it, and he was frowning into his tea, annoyed about the old man sitting across from him.

“I wouldn’t get out into the _world_ , I would get into a small town and a community not much different than Hobbiton,” he insisted. “A community that isn’t even particularly… friendly at that.”

Bilbo had heard about Rhovanion, and how they had been like after the Rising and during the War. When the dead rose from their graves it was the cities that had been protected first, of course, and as the military didn’t get to the rural areas on time the people had taken matters into their own hands in those places. Rhovanion and most of all Erebor had been famous for how fiercely its people had fought when no help was in sight.

Even now, when things were peaceful, the damage had been repaired and people had even gained lost loved ones back, Rhovanion was rumoured to be a terrible unpleasant and hostile place to be in. The country was at peace and the people were getting adjusted to the presence of the partially deceased, but the rural areas seemed to have missed that.

“A community that was hit by terrible tragedy and still remains proud and safe though all of it. They lost entire villages, but they endured.”

Gandalf smiled at Bilbo, and raised his cup to his lips. 

Bilbo regretted offering him tea after letting him into the house. He couldn’t kick a guest out while they were still drinking, or he perhaps could, but it was still too rude at the moment. Especially since Gandalf had come to offer Bilbo a job, even if he didn’t need _that_ job. And since he was an old friend and boss.

“You did work as a doctor for a long time,” Gandalf went on, “you wanted to make a difference, didn’t you? This is why you started advanced training with us, the first few months after the war. You should not let these skills go to waste simply because nobody needs them around here.”

Bilbo glared at Gandalf, then back at his knees.

When the dead had risen Bilbo had been worried. Not afraid, just worried about everyone. About those who had lost loved ones and then got them back in the most horrible way imaginable. People who lost loved ones because of the violence and the rabid undead. There had been so little of that anywhere near Hobbiton, but Bilbo had seen it all on the news, had tried to travel and keep in contact with those friends who were closer to what had been happening.

He had been amazed when there first was talk about a treatment. When there first were pictures of those who had risen from their graves on TV; not violent and mindless, but calm, shy and happy to suddenly be alive again. When there had been hope for the first time in ages.

Bilbo had called Gandalf’s company then, had asked whether they needed doctors or psychologists or anyone with any sort of experience to help. He had been taken gladly, had been taught all about neurotriptyline and how it could make the risen be… normal again. How it could restore their brain functions and how it made them just like before, in all but that their body was technically dead.

Within a few weeks the war had come to a complete stop. There were still some rabid ones running around, but the Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers could be treated and understood, had received help to make it easier to integrate in society again, and some had even returned to their old homes already.

And now Bilbo was back in Hobbiton, with a proper training and nothing to do. There just were barely a dozen PDS sufferers in the entire Shire, and none who had stayed in Hobbiton. He was happy like this, really, he didn’t need to get up and take his things to move across the entire country just to continue a work for a cause that didn’t need special help anymore.

“I am happy here,” Bilbo repeated, as he had done so many times that afternoon. “I really am.”

He liked just being a half retired doctor in the place he had grown up in. It was peaceful and good, and just because he still had all of his equipment from the time he worked with PDS sufferers, it did not mean that he _missed_ working like that.

“Well then,” Gandalf said, putting down the tea. “I can only repeat that Erebor is in need of someone like you. Someone who isn’t just there to supervise the risen, and give them daily doses of neurotriptyline, but also someone who can _take care_ of the risen. A doctor.”

Bilbo glanced up at Gandalf, frowning slightly. 

“They are partially deceased, they can’t get sick anymore, they don’t need a doctor. And I’m sure their families are getting all the professional counselling they need. They don’t _need_ one like me.”

Gandalf’s face was serious as he looked back at Bilbo.

“We both know that’s not quite true now.”

Bilbo closed his eyes and thought back to his time with the PDS sufferers.

Some of them had been old, some middle aged and far too many young people who had died before their time. Worried and confused people, not different from any other human Bilbo knew, apart from their eerie eyes and their cold pale skin.

He remembered nervous ones, who were nearly afraid to see their families again, those who looked like they would have wept if they could, those who had talked about remembering themselves after they rose but before they had gotten the treatment, those who remembered their hunting. There had been guilt-ridden ones, those who didn’t know what they were anymore or what to do with their second life. There had been pleading eyes, eyes completely white with frayed pupils and eyes already hidden behind contact lenses and looking normal, faces that looked pale as corpses and those that had warmer skin tones but too even to be anything but cover-up mousse.

People asking Bilbo for advice, “doctor, what am I now”, “Dr. Baggins, what if my mother won’t want me anymore”, “do you think this is my second chance at living, doctor?”. 

These people did need his help. They needed someone who considered that they weren’t just patients with an illness, which could be kept at bay with just one simple shot of medicine. 

“I don’t know,” Bilbo said, and at last Gandalf shrugged. 

“Then I shall leave you alone now,” he promised, and got up. “Thank you for your patience and hospitality my friend. Perhaps we can meet some other time, and not to talk business either. I’ll see myself out. Good bye.”

Bilbo watched him straighten his jacket and walk out into the corridor. He bit his lip.

He had never liked the idea of living in the north. He didn’t mind the live in smaller towns, but he loved Hobbiton and he knew that the Shire was a particularly friendly region anyway. Leaving north and being a stranger there…

Things were better now, but Rhovanion had been one of the areas where the Rising had hit the worst, and Erebor probably had a rather large number of PDS sufferers. They’d have doctors there, and nurses, but help was always needed. Especially from someone who already knew how to ease troubled minds, and who was used to all sorts of PDS. 

In the corridor Gandalf rustled with his long grey coat, and Bilbo heard the soft clang of an umbrella being picked up from the hanger.

Hobbiton was boring and Bilbo was very nearly retired, with how little he actually was needed. He liked his family but it was getting dull, and he was always so alone in the house. 

The door leading out of the house opened, and Bilbo was still sitting in his favourite dull armchair. 

It was a stupid idea. 

It was the worst idea Bilbo had ever had.

The teacup made a loud clacking sound when Bilbo slammed it on the table hastily, jumping up and running towards the door.

“Wait!” he shouted, and already knew that he would most certainly regret this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief not graphic descriptions of violence will occur once in a while, when talking about the Rising

The rain was barely strong enough to be felt, only enough to make everything feel damp and unpleasant, but not enough to make Thorin pull his hood up or go find shelter. They stood and watched the motorway in the distance, watched the few cars that passed by, none of them actually turning towards Erebor, barely any with a Rhovanion registration.

Next to him Glóin was scoffing and muttering as his cigarette got yet another drop of rain on it, and Dwalin followed the cars with his eyes, a bottle of beer braced against his hips, standing still as a statue. All of them were quiet, glaring at the bleak world before them.

A droplet of rain ran over Thorin’s neck, after working it’s way through the thick strands of his hair. It wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t want to return home, not yet. Not after the argument he had had once again.

“Ye’ve heard the news then,” Glóin muttered, after what felt like half an hour of silence between the cousins. “’bout the Rotters?”

Thorin sneered into the rain.

“I did. Got a call just this morning.”

Glóin’s thick red eyebrows furled and he turned to Thorin, waiting for what information he might add to what he’d heard already. Dwalin stared straight ahead, as ever on such days. 

Thorin took a swig from his army issue flask, which always was by his side now, even if it was cold tea more often than not. Its shape in his pocket gave him comfort.

“They’ve treated more of those sufferers. Loads from the area, they’ll be returning, a little troupe of them, they’re treated, they’re _safe_ now.”

He spat the last bit out, not quite seething but already feeling the old anger retuning. 

Glóin snorted, then let out a curse as he noticed his cigarette going out. He rummaged for a lighter in one of his countless pockets, and Thorin leaned further against the fence, waiting for his cousin to take his drag of nicotine and answer.

“To think that we all risked our lives to protect our homes from those Rotters. All on our own, the government didn’t give one bloody fuck about what happened to us. Sure, we’re heroes, we bleed and died for this peace. Oh well done you precious villager, have a medal and a mention in our fancy newspapers, good job at keeping Rotters at bay, here, have them back and live with them now.”

He took another drag of his cigarette, cheeks flushed with anger.

Thorin could understand it too well.

It had been bloody and horrible, in the first year after the rising. Rotters, violent corpses moving about, attacking anything living. They had been on their own, had only wanted to survive the attacks. It was the Human Volunteer Force that had ensured their survival; that had hunted down the creatures and had protected everyone. They had patrolled the area, had made people feel safe and still did.

All three were wearing their old combat gear as well, or what they had called that at least. Warm jackets and trousers of materials that kept them warm and didn’t rip, camouflage patterns even though nobody was sure whether the risen could even see that well. And guns, everybody who knew how to handle a gun or a rifle had taken one; everybody who knew how to hunt had helped.

They had sacrificed so much while protecting their home. Too much. 

Dwalin’s fingers drummed over his bottle, once, twice, then stilled. He used to play the cello, once, before the War and the Rising. It pained Thorin not to know whether Dwalin still did.

“They are peaceful,” Thorin allowed, thinking of the nervous and quiet people with their faces covered in make up to hide the sick paleness of their skin.

“Peaceful cause they’re pumped full of drugs,” Glóin muttered.

“One missed doses and they’re right back to tearing our guts out.”

Which was the problem. Thorin had seen what these creatures were capable of, had seen it from far too little distance. The thought of such beasts living among them, as if they were their neighbours, as if they had never died and risen, was just too much. 

“Put a tiger on a leash and it’ll still be capable of eating you,” Glóin said. 

“They should keep them were they can’t turn on innocent bystanders. We can’t be everywhere to protect our own, there’s too many already. How does the government mean to handle this?”

“More _professionals_ ,” Thorin replied, thinking back to the unpleasant phone call from earlier. He had never felt when talking to the old man.

“More nurses? Therapists? They should concern themselves with the living, not the Rotters.”

“They’re sending a doctor. Something about the PDS sufferers needing a counsellor and help to adjust to their difficult and traumatic situation.”

Thorin took another swig out of his flask and Glóin shook his head.

“I cannot believe them. What about us then? What about the poor children whose lives were ruined by the war, what about the parents who lost their sons and daughters? You don’t see them getting special government funded help sent over, do you?”

“I think it’s not even the government. It’s the Istari labs, they invented the meds, they get to act all high and mighty and send their specialists where they weren’t asked for.”

“They’re funded by the government, it’s all the same anyway.”

Glóin finished his cigarette, threw it into a puddle and crushed it with his heel. He reached into his pocket to fish out another, thought better of it and reached out to Dwalin who handed him the bottle of beer without a word. 

“Really, they shouldn’t be returning these people to their families anyway, nothing good comes from the dead coming back. Nothing.”

His broad hand landed on Thorin’s shoulder.

“No offense, but I’d rather deal with the pain of my loved ones dead that have them back in a drugged and violent semblance of what they once had been. It’s not real, it’s not healthy. Let the dead go, is what I say.”

Thorin’s lips thinned, and Dwalin slowly turned his head to stare at his cousin.

“Would you say that if it was your Gimli?”

“Now listen here!” Glóin snapped, his only son always a touchy subject, sure to send him on a rant. “I would give my _life_ for little Gimli to be happy and alive and healthy, but _if_ something happened to him, I’d want him to rest. I wouldn’t want his body to walk around and cause all of these violent things my Gimli would never do! I wouldn’t want my son’s image to sit in front of me, and I wouldn’t want to pretend that he’s just as he always was.”

He closed his eyes, turning away from his younger cousin.

“The dead are dead. That’s just the way it is, they stay dead, even if their bodies are not. I know it’s nice to think that the dead can return, but do you really think these… _creatures_ should be what we hope for? No. They’re just monsters, not our old friends. You _know_ this.”

Thorin thought of the words, remembered how Dís’ eyes had flashed when he had suggested the same thing to her once, remembered how his cheek had throbbed after his sister’s fist had landed on it. Whatever he believed, Dís saw the risen as _alive_ , like the people of the Istari labs seemed to. She would not be convinced otherwise, and Thorin could not blame her.

“Yes,” Thorin agreed, taking the beer from Glóin, who turned it over with a nod. “We should let them rest. Should keep them out of Rhovanion altogether if you ask me.”

He took a swig from the beer, large enough to hurt in his throat. 

Next to them Dwalin shifted, his eyes fixed on the passing cars again. He looked tenser than before, swayed slightly, then kicked his heavy boot against the fence and walked away from his cousins.

“Hey, where’re ye going?” Glóin called after him. “What about your beer.”

“Keep it,” Dwalin grumbled dismissively, without turning his head. He brushed some water droplets out of his bright blue Mohawk, then walked on and towards the main part of Erebor’s town.

Glóin shrugged, and turned his attention to the cars again. Most of them had turned on their beams by now.

“What will we do about the government keeping sending Rotters then? And that bloke from the labs?”

Thorin followed a van with his eyes, waiting until it was out of sight. Some of the rain drops had worked their way under his collar, and he really wished for some warmth.

“He’ll arrive tomorrow,” Thorin said. 

“Whatever his business here is, we’ll leave him be for now. But I _will_ take a look at what the Istari offer us for help at least.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do tell me if things aren't clear about the situation at hand. Some things will be explained later on as they're the actual plot, but I am trying to get the setting right, so that it's interesting to read without knowing the show.


	3. Chapter 3

Ori didn’t know what to do with himself in the too large and too quiet house. The size of it had never bothered him before. It had always been just the three of them, as long as he remembered, then two, then an always-shifting number of guests and those who didn’t know where else to go.

It had never felt so quiet, so dead, as it did now. 

It was darker than usual, dim in the corridors and a soft purple glow in Ori’s room, created by the thin curtains in front of his window. Perhaps it’d have a better feel about it if he’d just pull open all the curtains, opened doors and windows and let some light and cold fresh air in.

He didn’t go to open anything. 

Instead Ori stared at the wall next to his bed, the one where he had put up a pin board for all the things he loved and liked to look at. Barely any of it really made him happy anymore. 

There were his parents, all of their photos older, pictures of school and friends. Pictures of his brothers, all three of them together. Lately he had felt guilty when looking at them. And pictures of his two best friends, which ached as well.

Thinking of removing them was even worse, so Ori left them where they were, hoping that he’d be able to always look at them and remember simpler and better times.

It was too quiet, and he wasn’t even alone at home. Dori was there, Dori was _always_ there and usually he always was there to cheer Ori up, or to comfort him when he was upset. Always, no matter what, Ori had always relied on his brother being around and there for him.

Only twice in his life had Ori refused to be around Dori, to be around nearly anyone at all. Only twice, and both times it were times in which it was Dori who might have needed the comfort. 

Ori didn’t know how to comfort older brothers, and both times Dori had just needed time to come to terms with things.

The first time had been years ago. It had been a warmer day, sunny with a light breeze and so unspectacular, so utterly and completely wrong. Dori had worn his best suit then, a fine black suit that looked perfect on him, as nearly anything did. 

Dori had been sitting at the kitchen table, one bottle of wine in front of him, and one glass, neatly filled to a quarter with dark red liquid. There had been a few letters on the table, one bouquet of white flowers and some cards Ori couldn’t have cared less about. It was just condolences from people who thought it was their duty to write because it was just proper, people who cared more about Dori or Ori being upset than anything else.

Dori had just been staring at the table, unseeing, elbows braced on its edge, hands folded and his knuckles touching his chin. He had been so quiet, so composed, so utterly heartbroken and calm. Dori dealt with things that way, composed and calm until he was sure how to handle them. If he cried or raged or broke down he did it where Ori couldn’t see.

That day Ori had remained calm enough for Dori not to notice anything in his distracted state, enough for Ori to run up and hide in his room, throw his pretty black shoes and his nice jacket into a corner and just fall onto his bed and weep.

He wasn’t weeping now, and he didn’t feel like starting it.

Dori wasn’t wearing a suit now, but simple grey trousers and a soft sweater, his hair wasn’t styled properly and there were dark rings under his eyes, not like last time, when he had covered them up.

The bottle of wine was on the table again, and the glass, which was now filled to the brim. He barely ever drank an entire bottle of wine, and never alone. There was nobody to share with now, and Ori didn’t like wine.

Instead of the letters and cards and the flowers there were other letters, official ones and pamphlets, information for family members… Ori had seen them before, even before Dori opened the large envelope with shaky hands. They were at the hospital now, in most official buildings.

Last time Dori had been completely composed, as he sorted out his pain, this time he looked lost and his hands were folded over his mouth, trembling slightly each time he moved them away. 

Ori could not stand the sight of it, it scared him, it confused him.

He already didn’t know what to feel. Shouldn’t he be happy? If not that, there should be anticipation; there should be the shock, the happiness, the nervousness. 

Instead Ori felt dread. He didn’t know what he would do. The War had changed him, not much perhaps, but he had seen things he shouldn’t have, had seen people act in ways he wouldn’t have expected of them. He respected most of these people more, now that he knew how hard they’d fight to protect others.

They were brave, but Ori had been a coward. He’d only joined the volunteers once; with a rifle he wasn’t quite sure how to use. The Human Volunteer Force had saved them all when the government had been too overwhelmed by the Rising, and he still remembered the woods and the rain when he had tried to help. 

Dwalin had worn gear that made him look like a soldier, with the blue HVF band wrapped around his arm, with camouflage patterns and pockets for knives and ammunition, while Ori had just put on his warmest waterproof things.

He hadn’t told Dwalin anything about what he’d done that day, and afterwards most underage kids had been told to go away, to help their parents instead, to not actually go hunting for rabids. Dwalin had said that he was very brave though, and Ori hadn’t told him.

They had separated only briefly, but in that time Ori had seen a rabid up close. They were all so terrifying, pale with twisted faces and mud and black blood all over them. They were like the zombies from the movies, but real and horrifying and too close, and the zombies in the movies never looked like the nice neighbourhood lady who had passed away just a few months ago and wasn’t supposed to be walking down the street like that.

Dwalin thought that Ori had seen a bunch of them, and told him that it was good not to try and attack them. If there were too many it was just too dangerous and Ori had to _live_. That was the point of the HVF after all, survival. 

Ori never told him that he’d only seen one. That he would have had the perfect shot, this close to the creature, unnoticed by it. He didn’t tell Dwalin that he couldn’t pull the trigger, that he hadn’t even considered killing the rabid.

They were already dead, they were mindless in that state, but it would have felt like _murder_ to Ori. Since then he’d always been afraid to speak of the HVF, even if he _knew_ them to be heroes. Even if he knew that they’d all be dead without them.

He’d only ever told Fíli all of the truth, for why he couldn’t do it, and nobody else knew.

Dwalin might have thought he was a coward or seeing things, he would have been bitter and Ori never wanted to upset him. He couldn’t talk to Dori, who had been too upset about Ori going in the first place.

Only his two best friends had ever been allowed to know the secrets Ori couldn’t share with anyone else, and of those only Fíli had been there at the time, to share it with.

Sometimes Ori regretted telling him. Sometimes he felt selfish and was glad he could share the burden. Sometimes he had felt guilty, about how upset Fíli had been at the time.

Sitting in his room Ori felt glad that Fíli knew everything about what Ori had felt during the War. They had shared their fears and experiences and now Ori had somebody to talk to, somebody to give him advice while Dori was still too shocked to do anything, someone who already knew how Ori thought.

Ori stared at the layer of dust on his shelves, thought about how Dori would have frowned once, at how Ori was growing sloppy with his chores. Neither of them had the patience for them now.

With a glance towards his bedroom’s door Ori stood up and went to pick up his coat from where it hung over his chair’s armrest. Dori might want to talk to him later, but right now Ori just wanted to get out.

He put on the coat and his thickest softest scarf, and even his hat despite how it made his hair all messy. 

Dori might not notice him if he walked normally and didn’t slam the door, but Ori still made and effort to be as quiet as a mouse and not be heard at all as he slipped out of the house. There was no need for Dori to wonder or ask where he was going and whether he’d be home for dinner. 

It was a little cold to be riding on a bike now, and the air stung at Ori’s cheeks as he rode through the streets, past the quiet woods and towards the main part of the town. It was quiet and Ori barely saw anyone, and he did not stop to look at them too closely.

The Durins’ house was not too far away and Ori reached it before he could start to freeze at the slow pace he was moving. It looked quiet from the outside, but Ori still hesitated before locking his bike to a post and approaching. 

Fíli had shown Ori were the key was hidden, so Ori managed to sneak into the house without needing to alert anyone. There was some sound coming out of the kitchen, clatter and music from a radio, and noise from upstairs as well. Fíli and Kíli’s mother was all right, but Ori didn’t want to have to talk to her now, and he prayed that their uncle wasn’t anywhere near either. 

The living room was dark and Ori tiptoed towards the stairs leading to the first floor. He could see boxes from Dís’ work standing on the coffee table, meds and those large syringes Ori was glad he’d never have to use.

He made it upstairs just fine, into the corridor with the prettily painted doors. He had helped with Fíli’s, had helped drawing a stylized and sharp pattern that looked like rocks or tree branches, depending on how one looked. 

Ori braced himself and knocked; listened for the music coming from the other room and the noises from downstairs, ready to run should somebody else approach. Thankfully Fíli opened his door before anyone else was there, eyes widening as he saw Ori.

“Ori?! What happened?”

Ori usually texted him before coming over, or threw pebbles at either of the twins’ windows. Today he didn’t trust himself to do anything but talk to Fíli in person.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked, and glanced towards the door at the far end of the corridor. It was painted midnight blue and yellow, with star constellations all over it. The old upbeat mix tape with music from the 70s was blaring from inside, and Ori doubted that they’d be overheard. It still made him nervous.

“Sure,” Fíli said softly, understanding on his face and he gently took Ori’s hand and pulled him inside his room, just far enough to close the door behind him.

Fíli’s room was messy, with a laundry basket standing on the floor and pillows thrown onto every surface. Old photo albums and comic books were scattered across Fíli’s bed, as if he had busied himself with all of it at one point today but had not bothered to put it away.

Ori glanced around, fumbled with his sleeves and wondered what to say. He didn’t protest when Fíli pulled the hat of his head and unbuttoned Ori’s coat for him, he was too distracted to do it either way. 

“We got a letter…” he started and shrugged out of his coat when Fíli offered to hang it up.

“Bad news?”

Fíli’s hands were always warm when he held Ori’s, had always been even in midwinter and outside, just like Kíli’s once had been. By now only Fíli’s still were soft and warm when Ori touched them.

In the next room one song ended and another unexpectedly loud one started, and Ori opened his mouth and closed it again.

“I can tell Kíli to turn it down,” Fíli offered, giving Ori a crooked grin. “The git sometimes forgets that we don’t all want to listen along.”

Sometimes Ori envied Fíli for how easy he had it with his brother, compared to Ori. He had no reason not to be anything but happy to have him back, had never had to see him as anything but his usual kind and cheery self.

“It’s about Nori.”

Fíli’s smile dropped, and he squeezed Ori’s hands, looking serious now.

News about Nori hadn’t been good ones in far too long. 

Ori took a shuddering breath and leaned against Fíli, relaxing as he felt Fíli’s arms holding him. 

“They’re sending him back. We’re getting Nori back.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Dwalin woke up he felt his heart beating in his throat, too hard, too quick. If he had had a nightmare he couldn’t remember what it had been about, and than in itself was a blessing.

At least there had been no open graves or the Rising and his comrades dying this night, not as far as he remembered. 

At least there was no helplessness when faced with the inability to safe who he loved. 

Sitting up and getting out of bed was a painstaking process. Dwalin didn’t feel tired, but he also didn’t feel particularly rested and his entire body was cold and stiff as he tried to stand. He hated the feeling more than anything else, hated how it had never bothered him before, how he could sleep in the cold and on uncomfortable ground and be rested afterwards, and how just a few bad dreams made him feel so much older than he was. 

Dwalin hadn’t usually been one for hot showers, but since the Rising, and before he had to admit, he had used them more and more to relax and shake off the numb feeling sleep gave him.

He still lived in the house his family had always lived in, but the top floor and the attic were all his, and it was more like his own flat than part of one household. He even had his own kitchen corner and a fridge, which only contained beer at the moment.

Nobody would demand entry to the bathroom either, so Dwalin could take his time.

The hot water was nearly painful at first, but after two minutes of just standing under the stream it started to relax Dwalin. He stood and stared at the tiles, watching the water run over the white stone and pool at his feet. After a while the steam all around him started to obscure the bathroom, and Dwalin watched it, wondering what he had dreamed about this time.

Perhaps the Rising and the War, and how everyone had carried guns or bats or any sort of weapon, afraid that Rotters would attack them. Everyone in the HVF dreamt of that sometimes.

Perhaps he had dreamed of all the deaths he couldn’t prevent, of Thorin’s ashen face and Dís’ hands clenching around her first aid kit, not enough to help on her own. 

Perhaps it was one of the older dreams, one that had torn at his mind even before the dead decided to get up and take a walk among the living. Perhaps it had been one of sitting at the police station, waiting for information, praying, hoping, of being in the hospital and being told that his life had just broken apart.

Sometimes Dwalin dreamt of memories. 

When the Rising had happened and no help had come from the government and none of the official sources knew how to deal with this, they had had their own rules. The police had mostly tried to protect the civilians, and those who hunted the risen dead had tried to make sure that everything would be fine for them as well.

“Don’t wander alone,” Thorin had said more than once, “Don’t go out without at least some kind of weapon and your radio. _Don’t_ go to the graveyard, we don’t know whether more won’t decide to rise.”

None had risen after that first day, and none had returned to their graves, as they found out later. Still, at the time nobody could have been sure.

Dwalin had disregarded what Thorin said for the very first time then.

He had taken his rifle and tucked his colt into his belt, and he had gone alone, when the sky had already started to turn red in the winter afternoon. It had been cold and the ground was frozen everywhere as Dwalin snuck off, and went to the graveyard.

He had never liked going there too much, there had never been much for him and he felt like he shouldn’t disturb those who actually came to grieve. 

The graveyard had been empty that day, and bright yellow police bands blocked all entries, informing of the possible danger ahead. As if anyone in their right mind would risk going to where the Rotters had come from.

Dwalin hadn’t been in his right mind perhaps, but he was armed and he was one of the best, and he hadn’t cared for how dangerous going alone was. He just … had to know. 

He remembered walking over the little ways made of pebble and through the grass, past untouched and open graves, past holes and plates that had not been moved. He hadn’t cared, he had just walked to the place he hadn’t visited in way too long. The place he should have gone to every day before the Rising, but hadn’t.

Part of him had hoped… for what Dwalin didn’t know. Even now he could not be sure what he had hoped for. 

There were some graves quite far from the gates, closer to the forest behind the graveyard than to the street, even if both were in the distance.

Rivers was a name written on more than one tombstone, but Dwalin had ignored them, had walked past them towards the newest of them, the one he had not wanted to acknowledge and could barely stand thinking of. He hadn’t breathed the last few steps. 

Had only let out a shuddering sigh just before daring to _look_.

The tombstone was made of a pale green plate, with white lettering, _‘Noah Rivers’_ , and Dwalin’s eyes always skimmed over it, not able to actually look at it for long.

Dwalin had never liked it, had never liked standing there to look at cold stone and wet grass, and see how there were too little flowers on the too small grave. He had never known what to bring, had never felt like he was ready to talk to the grave as so many seemed to like doing. It had felt ridiculous. It also was ridiculous to stare at the tombstone that had nothing of Nori, which mentioned the dates that told one nothing of the things that mattered, the epitaph he wouldn’t have liked, and had the name barely anyone even knew was the one given to him at birth and in all official documents.

The grass on which Dwalin had put flowers, just once, hadn’t been there anymore. Instead Dwalin had stared down into the hole, five feet of wet soil and broken rotten wood below that. He hadn’t known what to think, what to feel. He hadn’t known how he could shoot at any Rotter again after seeing that, but he had, he hadn’t known what to feel when there was talk of a cure, so he hadn’t thought of it, he had ignored it, had desperately tried to keep the hope in check. 

He hadn’t hoped for… anything really, not since the day the doctors had patted his shoulder and went on to inform the family. 

Dwalin had spent five months grieving, feeling numb and lost, then the Rising had forced him out of his slow attempts to deal with the pain, and now the uncertainty hurt more than the mourning had. 

He still didn’t know what to feel.

He did not like the dead walking among them. They weren’t real, they weren’t… _people_ like the government kept promising, not really, they were bodies, they were raging monsters that only smiled and remained calm because they had been given medicine to keep them in check.

So often people said that the medicine was just so that they could function and be who they used to be before they got ‘sick’, but Dwalin had seen them up close, unlike the scientists who had never been without the protection of actual trained soldiers. 

One would not attempt to give a wild tiger calming drugs and then claim it was just as harmless as a kitten, in no way different from it. Why would one try it with Rotters?

There was nothing human about them. Nothing. There was no hope for them to heal completely, there was no use in trying, they were _dead_ already, what did the people even expect to come of it?

Dwalin had to force himself to snap out of those thoughts. What use was a hot shower if he just kept thinking about these things? 

By the time he was done washing his hair the water already started to cool off. Dwalin stepped out, ignoring the fogged up mirror and the water dripping to the floor. He towelled himself dry, then brushed his hands over the mirror.

His face was too pale, but after a good breakfast he’d look fine enough. His Mohawk looked nearly black when wet and in this light, but Dwalin decided that the colour was still even enough for another dyeing to be unnecessary any time soon.

He felt awake now, but the thoughts would not leave his head.

He _knew_ that nothing would come of it if he dared to hope, he knew that the PDS sufferers were just the monsters they were before. Some days he couldn’t even look at them without his hand itching for his colt and his heart beating too hard in his chest. 

Sometimes Dwalin was more afraid of their constant and quiet presence than he had been of the monsters attacking on sight. He hated them, hated to look at their faces and see edges of paleness under their make up, or even worse, when they weren’t wearing contact lenses and watched him with pale white eyes. 

He also knew that there still were rabids out in the wild. That there were those who only slowly ‘healed’ before they could be threated with shots and be released into society. He knew that many families didn’t speak of it, he knew that some even packed their things and moved to the cities, away from people who knew better than to accept PDS sufferers like they were harmless. He knew that some communities loudly protested the return of the Rotters and that nobody would admit to hosting one. 

Dwalin didn’t know what exactly had happened to Nori, whether he was one of those who ran, one of the ones who’d been caught and might return, or whether he had been shot while trying to eat somebody…

No. 

He knew that Nori was dead.

He didn’t know where his body was, which shouldn’t matter but Dwalin felt actual physical pain in his chest when thinking about it. His Nori was dead, but his body had gone walking. He would not have him back; he had lost him and just knowing that there was a creature looking just like him…

Glóin was right in saying that it was better to let the dead rest. That they would not return as they once were. 

Dwalin had no doubt that Glóin would have been steady in that opinion in Dwalin’s place, but hope was a treacherous and painful thing. Dwalin couldn’t let go of the thought that he might see Nori. Even if he knew that it wouldn’t be _him_.

There would be more partially deceased returning soon. Perhaps… Who knew?

Dwalin pulled out a random shirt and sweater out of his shelf and dressed in his combat gear, like nearly always when he went out nowadays. The blue band on his left arm with the few medals the HVF had received for their bravery would instantly tell people who he was, as if everybody didn’t know already.

Once he had put on his boots, Dwalin grabbed the keys of his pickup from the table and went to search for food. A look into his fridge revealed that the content hadn’t changed from beer and package of cheese to anything else, so Dwalin scoffed and had to walk downstairs for breakfast. At least he was alone now. 

He was tense and in a bad mood and the doubts kept racing in his head. He had to know, he only had to know and he’d be able to soothe his conflicting emotions. Uncertainty had always been the worst thing about anything. 

Dwalin looked outside, at the grey sky, wondered whether it would rain again or whether there’d be sunshine for once. 

He needed to know.

The Rivers’ house was a large one, and though neither Dori nor Ori had truly been members of the HVF things would have gone to hell without their help and the space they provided. There still was some ammunition and old rifles stored in their garage, and Dori had mentioned that he didn’t want all of it in his house any longer.

He could drive by to fetch them. Ori would be there, Ori always was glad to chat to Dwalin. If anyone knew…

Dwalin half finished his breakfast, checked his colt’s holster, and walked out into the cold. He’d have certainty at least; even if hope was not a thing he could permit himself to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea whether I can even write prejudice and bigotry properly, so right now it's characters who have reasons to think what they do. Either way, Dwalin has a lot to deal with.


	5. Chapter 5

The pebbles underneath the wheels of Dwalin’s pickup made a loud scrunching sound, leading to some birds in the trees fly up with an indignant caw. Ori looked out of the window and was at the door before Dwalin was finished parking near the house.

He jumped out of the driver’s seat and onto the ground, trying to be silent but still kicking up a few more pebbles. 

Ori smiled as he approached, and even made an awkward little wave with his hand. 

“Good morning,” he said, tone politely cheerful. Dwalin was used to that, Ori nearly always spoke that way when it was still early or when he hadn’t expected meeting anyone.

“Morning,” he replied, and followed the boy into the house when he was waved in, dutifully wiping his boots on the doormat despite them being perfectly clean right now. Dori had always insisted that the HVF didn’t make a mess, and by no Dwalin was used to it.

“Do you want tea? Maybe coffee? I don’t know if we have all of the ingredients, Dori’s out getting groceries…”

“Tea’s fine,” Dwalin said, and watched Ori scurry off to the kitchen. He contemplated following, then decided to just stay in the living room. It was more comfortable in some ways, a nice welcoming sofa and pictures of landscapes on the walls. There were pillows and doilies everywhere, some old hobby of someone.

Dwalin sat down, careful not to lean against the pretty pillows, and waited. In the kitchen he heard the kettle making its soft rattling sound as it heated the water, and the clang of dishes being set out.

He glanced around the place, taking it in. It looked like it had before the Rising, just as on any day Dori had tidied up things. When the HVF and anyone else had needed a place to stay, or more bases that were secure and could store ammunition, Dori had offered the house. At that time the tables had been cleared and there had been a radio set up, and always someone on the phone, though the connections had barely worked.

Before Dwalin hadn’t visited too often, but the place was familiar enough. There was nothing unusual there, nothing that hadn’t been there before. 

Soon enough Ori was back with a tray, carrying two cups of Dori’s strong tea mixes along with a sugar bowl and a little can of milk.

Dwalin thanked him and awkwardly took one of the delicate cups, eyeing Ori who was adding milk into his. Usually Dwalin would have taken sugar with his, but he didn’t feel like taking any more than what he’d been offered. He wasn’t here for tea after all.

He took a slow sip from the tea, careful not to make an accidental sound or burn his lip. Ori seemed to be at ease with all of this. Despite how he hadn’t been alone in one place with Dwalin since that one day they went on patrol together.

Dwalin still hadn’t quite forgiven himself for putting Ori in danger. 

Ori drank from his tea and looked out of the window where Dwalin’s car was parked.

“Did you drop by on an errand?” he asked, taking another sip. 

Dwalin looked down at the cup. Its handle was barely large enough for two of his fingers to fit through so he put it down rather than trying to balance it.

“There’s some rifles and equipment you still have left here. I came to fetch it.”

Ori made a quiet ‘ah’ and shrugged.

“Dori said he wanted those gone but he didn’t want to push yet. Aren’t they Thorin’s though?”

“Dís doesn’t permit any weapons in the house anymore. Or the garage for that matter, at least not that many.”

Ori didn’t reply but there was understanding on his face. Dwalin couldn’t quite agree with that. He wasn’t sure how Dís could believe that Thorin would ever actually use these rifles unless there was danger. There still were rabids about, and Thorin would never move against someone who the government now saw as a person, and never against something that wore the face of a boy he’d used to love.

“I don’t know what Dís expects…” he muttered, glaring at his cup as if it’d know what to think of his cousin’s decisions.

“Precaution,” Ori said, and there was sadness in his voice. “She’s heard of the incidents.”

Incidents. That’s what it was called, in the few cases it had been known in news that actually reached Rhovanion. People who had fought before, hunters, those who’d been in the HVF, or just people who had guns shooting the Rotters living amongst them now, or trying to. 

Dwalin could understand self-defence, could understand fear and why one might be weary of these creatures, might not want to be near them. He did not approve of trying to get rid of them like that. Unless they showed their face and actually attacked and turned into rabids, there was no reason to kill them. 

They were dead, couldn’t be real people, but they did move and talk and act like they were living. Even if they were dead already it was… murder. It felt like that when Dwalin thought of it. They _could_ still be living in some sense, too, maybe.

“Thorin wouldn’t,” Dwalin simply said, because he knew it to be true.

Ori gave him a searching look Dwalin couldn’t quite read, but he didn’t say anything.

Did Ori think anyone else in the family might go shoot a Rotter who wasn’t also rabid? Did he think _Dwalin_ might?

They finished their tea in silence and then Ori stood to lead Dwalin to where the rifles were stored. There weren’t that many and Dwalin would put them in the basement at his own place, and take care that they were well kept in case of an emergency. 

He didn’t dare ask whether Ori knew more, whether there had been any information on Nori. There were so many missing people, so many Rotters nobody had managed to identify and many who were still wandering around. If Nori had been found his brothers would know. But only if. 

Dwalin didn’t know whether he should be bothering Ori with that. It’d just upset him, probably. Maybe he hadn’t thought about it at all. It still would grate at Dwalin’s nerves if he didn’t ask.

If he spoke of this, it’d only end up with Ori comforting him. And he shouldn’t! It should be Dwalin comforting the boy who’d lost an older brother, not… He hadn’t lost family; he had no claim over Nori after all… None that counted anymore. 

“What would you do,” he started, voice much softer than it usually was. Ori looked up at him, waiting, and Dwalin held the weapons and tried to think of what to say.

“What would you do if somebody you once knew came back like this? If you knew that they rose from the grave and were a Rotter, that they were monsters, or that they might actually be calmed and drugged? That somewhere something that looks like… that person might be walking around. What... what would you think?”

Ori wrapped his arms around himself, looking to the side. He looked a little sad, but not much so.

“I have no idea what that would feel like,” he said, “I don’t _want_ to know how that’d be.”

He didn’t know… Did that mean he hadn’t seen Nori’s open grave? Wasn’t that surprising; so many still didn’t go to the cemetery, since the Rising had started there and few wanted to return. It was disappointing, since that meant nobody knew what had happened to Nori after all.

Ori he looked up again, his warm brown eyes fixing at Dwalin and making him feel like he couldn’t leave.

“Why don’t you ask your family?”

Dwalin nearly took a step back out of reflex. 

He hadn’t been at Dís’ house for nearly two months, hadn’t even thought of going there ever since he heard about Kíli being back. He had only seen Fíli on the streets and Thorin didn’t talk about it, since he had no idea what to think about any of it either. Dwalin had his own problems to chew on, own conflicts, so he hadn’t pushed the matter. Had tried not to think about it at all.

He shrugged, and he knew he was frowning in the way that’d make most people back off. Ori knew him though.

“You really should talk to them,” he suggested, looking tired as if he’d told that many times before. “Talk to Fíli maybe, or Kíli. He… he isn’t like you all think! He really is like before, he’s himself. You’d know if you’d talk.”

Dwalin shirked from his look.

He never…

There were so few of them in Erebor, most stayed away from the public and it was so easy to avoid them. Dwalin did whenever he could, he just… couldn’t look at them. They were like the Rotters that had tried to tear him apart when he didn’t shoot them quick enough.

Ori was still watching him when he looked back, judging. 

If he thought Dwalin was one of those who’d shoot a PDS sufferer just because, or that he would act violently he’d _never_ tell if Nori did turn up anywhere.

“I didn’t have the opportunity to see them,” Dwalin said quietly. “I will, soon.”

Ori seemed satisfied with that answer and he opened the door for Dwalin when he couldn’t with an arm full of rifles. He waved again once Dwalin had loaded them on his pickup and set to drive off.

Dwalin watched their house grow smaller in the rear-view mirror, then fixed his eyes back on the road. He shouldn’t have tried to find out about Nori in the first place, shouldn’t have tried to have Ori talk about him either.

Now there’d be more doubts. If even his brothers didn’t know, who else would? 

Dwalin gripped the wheel tighter and stared at the road, slowly breathing in and out once.

He still had beer in his fridge, just for these kinds of occasions.

 

*

Ori stood and watched at the window long after the headlights of Dwalin’s car had disappeared between the trees. Already he felt guilty for lying, thought it had only been a little lie. Dwalin hadn’t asked whether he knew about Nori. And he didn’t know what he would even say to that, should anyone ask. 

He wasn’t sure how to tell Dwalin that Nori would be coming home very soon, that Dori had already dusted his room and got out some of his old things that they hadn’t thrown away.

He had never told Dwalin much about what he knew of Nori, and how could he even?

Ori fumbled at his sleeves, listening to the sound of the wind in the treetops. It was far too late to go tell Dwalin what he knew. He should have done so years ago, during the Rising, during the first day of knowing perhaps.

Dwalin had taken Ori along, and he had no idea why he’d agreed to take someone who wasn’t as experienced. He had promised to look after Ori, and Ori had felt safe with Dwalin, knowing that Dwalin had a radio and was strong and a good shot. He hadn’t felt like the cold forest around them was really that much of a threat. 

And he had his own rifle then, had been proud and not afraid at all; glad that he could be of use in keeping the town safe. They had wandered deep into the woods, not too far from the proper roads and nowhere between the closest cemetery and Erebor’s centre. 

Ori didn’t even remember why he had wandered off, why Dwalin hadn’t been there and why he had decided to press on rather than to return. 

Brave and stupid, that was all Ori had been back then.

He hadn’t known whether he actually wanted to shoot a Rotter, but when he had seen one he knew he would.

It was so vivid in his memory, the bush he’d hidden behind, the feeling of his fingers against the cool trigger and his quick calm intakes of breath as he had waited to see whether the Rotter had noticed him.

The creature hadn’t, and Ori was glad of being no louder than the wind and the animals in the forest. He had watched it, had been a little bit nervous at how close the thing was.

He’d seen its slow stiff movements, had even been close enough to hear the weird ragged breathing and to see the dark colour of its fingers and the bruise-like marks around its eyes.

He’d been close enough to shoot; close enough to hit it right and not get in any danger.

He had raised his rifle, and he had truly looked at the creature then. At the slim figure of what once must have been a very young man, or nearly a boy even. Ori had looked and he had seen the dishevelled red braid with branches and soil caught in it, had seen the leather jacket of the same kind he’d always liked to look at before.

He had recognized the dark slightly torn jeans that had always passed as ‘formal clothes’ and the boots. He had recognized the shape and the face as the Rotter changed directions slightly, to move past a large tree. 

Ori had nearly screamed in shock, had nearly recoiled from the sight and had only barely kept himself from throwing the rifle away.

He remembered the terror at nearly shooting his own brother, remembered watching the Rotter move and wondering whether this really was his brother and not truly just some creature. 

He remembered waiting for just long enough to be sure Nori wouldn’t follow him, then he’d ran, nearly blind in his fear. He hadn’t known what to do, who to tell, he remembered being afraid that somebody else would shoot Nori, that everything would be repeated as it had a few months before the rising. At the time most had wanted to rather be safe than sorry, and barely anyone tried to catch a Rotter to put in a cage for the government and the scientists to deal with.

Ori had ran blindly, until Dwalin was there, catching him, holding him close and soothing him with words and his rough calloused hands smoothing down his hair. Ori’s hands had wrapped around Dwalin’s collar, he’d gasped and heaved for air. He had really wanted to tell him, to ask for help.

It had taken just one look at Dwalin’s face to decide against it.

Dwalin had been hurting the entire time before the Rising, had only slowly started to be his usual self after the loss. In a way Ori had wondered whether Dwalin had been dealing with Nori’s death worse than he and Dori had.

And he just couldn’t tell Dwalin that the one he grieved for was now wandering about, and that he was just one of those who hunted humans and who the HVF was trying to stop.

He never spoke about it to Dwalin, too afraid to hurt him, and then unsure of how to breech the subject. Only Fíli knew the full story, and by now it didn’t matter.

Ori was still staring through the window, nearly unseeing, until the soft prattling of rain and his phone ringing upstairs threw him off his glum memories.

It was the ringtone he’d set for Dori, which meant he was probably getting a call with instructions of how to preheat the oven or something similar. 

He sighed, pushing Dwalin out of his thoughts with some guilt, and went to fetch it. There was no use in regretting his previous silence now, and no use in trying to tell anything now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think next chapter will be back to Bilbo


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> brief talk of the war and violence in this one

All in all, Bilbo supposed as he looked around his new office, Erebor wasn’t as bad as he had feared it would be. Rhovanion was a place very unlike the Shire, but it had a rough sense of beauty about it, and Bilbo was sure it would be much nicer on a sunny day. 

Gandalf had at least graciously agreed to drive him all the way to his new home. It really was the least he could do though, after bullying Bilbo into accepting this job. 

Bilbo wasn’t sure whether he had made the right decision even now. Sure, the place was nice, but Bilbo didn’t know what to expect of the region. It was different, both in the way the people acted and in how the PDS sufferers would be. There were more than in Hobbiton for one, and that alone would make their situation a little harder. At least they would be able to support one another and talk about their experience, and Bilbo had already composed an ad to suggest group meetings in his head. 

In the car he and Gandalf hadn’t spoken too much. Bilbo had sometimes sipped at the tea in his thermos can and had watched the scenery change from the gentle green hills of his home to the rough rocky region of the Rhovanion. The rain prattling against the windscreen had blurred the view nearly too much for this later on, the wipers only clearing enough to see the road. 

Still Bilbo had noticed the marks the War had left on the land. 

Fences near the road and between the fields, protection against rabid risen that were still rumoured to roam the forests. Signs near petrol stations and lists of names with pictures and question marks and phone numbers scribbled on them. Ever so often pillars and bridges had been smeared with graffiti, the most recent ones a clear blue with the symbol of the HVF painted over as large an area as possible. Even though there was no need for them anymore, the bravery of the volunteers was still celebrated and honoured. 

Nothing Bilbo would have found unnerving. Why should he? He hadn’t experienced the life up here, but he had heard about how important those brave men and women had been to protect the rural areas. 

What had unsettled him was the amount of slurs he _thought_ he’d seen along the praise. 

“Rotters be gone?” he had asked Gandalf as he’d caught a glimpse at writing inside a tunnel. 

Bilbo had stared at Gandalf with a frown, sure that he must have misread. But Gandalf had shrugged and shaken his head slightly.

“The people here don’t find forgetting the War easy, Bilbo.”

Bilbo hadn’t asked for details. What did he know really, perhaps that writing had been old, or perhaps he really had read it wrong. Surely that was it. 

When Gandalf finally drove onto smaller roads and towards Erebor Bilbo had managed to convince himself that everything was fine after all. He tried to watch what was to be his new home through the window, but the view was blurry and grey thanks to the rain, and most of the buildings were gone out of sight too soon to bother watching.

As Gandalf pulled up next to the old building where Bilbo would work he let the motor run and glanced at Bilbo. 

“There we are. How about you go take a look while I’ll drive your things to your new place. I’ll fetch you later and we can have tea or late lunch, whichever you like.”

And this was how Bilbo had found himself alone in the drizzle; holding a box of his things, wind tugging at his too light jacket and curls. He’d watched Gandalf’s car drive away before he’d braced himself to enter the building. It was quiet there, probably outside of most office hours. 

The entrance Gandalf had let him out at led to a corridor and lobby reminiscent of most of the smaller hospitals Bilbo had been in before. Several doctors shared the space, and for most people it was much easier than to drive to the hospital. Now the larger part of the building had been converted specifically for the PDS sufferers in Erebor and this was where Bilbo would work. 

He’d felt a little lost in the halls, barely lit and dark for this time of day, with no sunlight to break through the clouds. It was only one of Bilbo’s new colleagues popping his head out of his office that prevented him from wandering too far and getting lost. 

‘Just call me Óin, we’ll be practically living together at work soon’ the man had waved Bilbo off when he’d introduced himself and led him on the quickest way to his office. After he returned to his own work, leaving Bilbo to examine the place. 

The office was nice, though the furniture and equipment looked old. Everything showed signs of wear, but as Bilbo cautiously examined the chairs and couch he noticed how it was all clean and obviously well cared for. Somebody had made sure to leave everything up to date, and though the bookshelf was near empty there were some of the standard tomes on psychology and general medicine. 

Bilbo recognized some of the reference books as editions he had kept at home by glancing at the spines, but he’d have to take a look at most once he had time. 

He just stood in the middle of his new space, arms braced against his sides and cheeks slightly puffed up. His eyes scanned the place, taking in the leaflets on his desk, the boxes of neurotriptyline on the shelves and the displays and posters of musculature and basic anatomy that seemed a little out of place. Or maybe not, the PDS sufferers were still people with bodies after all, even if Bilbo’s task would be to take care of their minds. 

Eventually Bilbo remembered the box he’d brought along, and carefully placed it on the desk. The rain had only soaked the edges of the carton, but thankfully none of the dampness had gotten on the inside. There wasn’t that much in there to begin with, nearly anything Bilbo would need for work would be mailed from Hobbiton or was in his suitcase in Gandalf’s car. 

He’d packed some books and folders, so he wouldn’t have to bring them along once the actual work started. There were a few pictures and trinkets he’d liked to keep on his desk back at home, and Bilbo gently started to lift out what he brought one by one. Bilbo opened up drawers and shelves, peeking inside and assigning new places for each of the things he’d brought.

He hummed a little tune as he worked, adamant to keep up a good mood. 

Bilbo heard the heavy steps before the knock came, and he turned his head, arm still raised up high to try and put one of his less necessary folders on the highest shelf. He nearly twitched back as he saw the tall man standing in his door, a dark look on his face. 

He wasn’t sure what made him more nervous, the way the man looked, or what he was wearing. Blue piercing eyes and long hair and beard, the broadness and stance speaking of strength and somehow Bilbo was sure that his man was used to giving orders and having them followed. He was wearing what Bilbo could only describe as combat gear, though it was no uniform. The blue band on his arm showed that he was a member of the HVF, even though the writing wasn’t visible, and there were medals on his lapel. He was carrying no weapons Bilbo could see, and yet he was sure that this man might still know how to defend himself and cause a great deal of harm.

Bilbo felt the surprised little whimper in his throat, and he firmly pushed it back as he turned to look at the visitor. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, and either he’d spoken too quietly or the man hadn’t listened.

“So… You are the Istari’s new doctor?”

He said it with what Bilbo felt was a condescending tone, and that alone made him gather his courage. This was _his_ place and why should he feel intimidated, just because of this man wandering in. 

“Bilbo Baggins, yes, is there something you wanted?”

Maybe he sounded too miffed and rude as he said this, but perhaps that was better than backing off and showing signs if nervousness. As far as first impressions went this probably was for the better. 

The man raised his eyebrows and looked around the office, eyes moving over the boxes and folders Bilbo had already gotten out.

“I just wanted to see for myself,” he said, not elaborating further. 

He just stood there, watching, and Bilbo was at a loss about what to do. He stood at his desk and waited for the man to say anything else, but he simply took in the entire room before turning to look Bilbo up and down. His expression didn’t change, but Bilbo was certainly not about to just _let_ the stranger judge him.

“Uh,” he coughed and fidgeted with the folder he’d been about to put away when he’d been interrupted. “So… you are part of the…”

He waved vaguely at the man’s HVF band.

“Thorin Durin, I’m the commander in Erebor,” he clarified. “I take it the old fool didn’t tell you about anyone in our town?”

It took Bilbo a few moments to realize that Thorin had meant Gandalf.

“He isn’t… No he did not, why would he, the Human Volunteer Force has been dissolved, hasn’t it?”

Something dark passed over Thorin’s face as Bilbo said that.

“We are still here, and we’re not going anywhere while there is still the chance of a threat. I don’t care what the government and the police say, they can’t protect every house and village.”

Bilbo knew that well enough. There still were rabids out there, captured and brought to the Istari rehabilitation centres. He couldn’t blame anyone who still was as cautious as in the days after the rising, though he still wasn’t comfortable with the HVF. They were among the loudest voices demanding for the PDS sufferers to be locked away, and former HVF were often the ones responsible for attacks and PDS sufferers feeling unsafe. 

“I know that,” Bilbo tried softly, hoping to appease the man. “And I think what you’re doing is very brave. But Gandalf probably forgot to mention because you are not officially active?”

Thorin squinted at the mention of the name but didn’t say anything more. 

He eyed the leaflets next to Bilbo’s box, the ones that cheerfully promised assistance with getting used to PDS and having loved ones needing assistance. 

“And this is what you’ll be doing here? What the Istari decided we’ll need as help?”

Bilbo’s polite smile wavered a little. He wasn’t quite sure what the men had meant with that, his tone quite neutral. 

“I hope I can help to the best of my ability. You have quite a few PDS sufferers living here, or returning. Having somebody to talk to and perform examinations to keep them both physically and psychically healthy at the same time will be beneficiary.”

Thorin’s voice was quiet as he replied.

“This is the Istari’s main concern? Their psychical health?”

Bilbo shrugged. 

“They are often quite confused and unsure about how to pick up their life again. I will help them and make sure everything is easier. I did work with some patients before, and I have to admit they did feel much better. It _is_ an important matter.”

“So the people of this town are less important than those… _rotters_?”

Thorin nearly spit that last word out and Bilbo froze. People in this town _were_ of the worst kind after all.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice cold and all politeness gone from it. “The correct word to use is ‘Partially Deceased Syndrom Sufferers’ or PDS, or… just not _that_. I see no reasons why you would doubt the benefit of this. Do you think we should let all those people suffer on their own with no help or attempt to understand them? Leave them alone and not care for anything beside them functioning? Is this what you want?”

Thorin’s eyes flashed and he took a step closer, still on the other side of the desk but already towering over Bilbo. 

“You think I don’t understand? I wonder if it’s your lot who doesn’t, and doesn’t care for any of us.”

He leaned closer, his hand curling into a fist as he put it on the desk.

“Tell me, have you ever lost and mourned someone only to have to shoot them, when they try to hunt you down? Have you ever seen your loved one’s corpse kneel over the prey you weren’t quick enough to save? Have you ever had to deal with _that_ and then having to see a monster wearing your dear one’s face, acting like them, talking like them, while you have to pretend that everything is fine, that you don’t know what they are and what they’d done?”

Bilbo resisted the urge to take a step back but Thorin’s eyes were drilling into him, making him feel like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Have you ever wondered what you’ll do when the monster they’ve become starts stirring, starts hunting for flesh once more? Have you ever seen parents fear for the children and not knowing whether they can protect them? Have you ever seen people hope for their loved ones to return, but also knowing they’ll have to shot them down to safe everyone? Have you, Mr Baggins, or was it all safe and nice down where you’re from?”

Bilbo’s throat felt dry and Thorin was still staring down at him. He opened his mouth, unsure. He did not want to back down before that man.

“Being on the other side of things is not that much fun either Mr Durin. I can help there,” he said quietly.

Thorin leaned back, and stares at Bilbo with a near pitying expression. 

“So you calm the monsters before taking care of the living left behind?”

He made a soft sound that nearly sounded like a laugh, but there was no joy in it. He nearly seemed resigned at that.

“I wish you luck with that… endeavour, shrink,” he said, and before he could finish or before Bilbo could reply a jingle interrupted the silence. 

Bilbo nearly jumped at the unexpected buzz of his phone, so completely out of place and breaking the strange tension that had taken hold of him.

“Oh I will be fine,” he promised, forcing another polite smile. “But if you’d excuse me now, my ride is here.”

He pushed past the desk and tried to not come too close to Thorin. In only a few steps he was out of his office and in the hallway, remembering that he probably should have locked when he was too far to want to turn back. He heard Thorin’s heavy steps and the door being closed when he had nearly reached the end of the hallway, and really, there was nothing too important in there yet. Surely the hospital’s locked doors would be enough.

Outside the rain had started again and Gandalf was waiting in the car. Bilbo muttered a reply when Gandalf asked him about how he’d liked the place, and didn’t say anything else after Gandalf started the engine to drive on to Bilbo’s new home. 

He was not sure what to think about the encounter in his office. A tiny part of him was still intimidated, but mostly he was seething quietly about the man’s rudeness and the largest just wanted to prove Thorin wrong. Bilbo still wasn’t sure whether he wanted to stay, but he would _not_ back down before Thorin.


	7. Chapter 7

Thorin’s coat was damp from the rain when he returned home, despite of how little there’d been of it. He couldn’t wait for the season to change.

The little shrink sent to them by the Istari Labs was a strange fellow. Anyone who’d not lived through the worst of the war and didn’t know how it had been like seemed strange to Thorin these days. It grated at Thorin’s nerves to know that this man now would think him an unsympathetic man who did not care a bit for those he’d been sent to help. But Mr Baggins truly seemed to think that the Risen needed more support than the living, or that the government was right in trying to waste resources on this.

It wasn’t as if Thorin thought not a single penny should be given to the efforts to make things better and make sure the Risen wouldn’t turn back the their violent state. But nobody, _nobody_ cared for the fighters in the woods, those who’d lost and faced loved ones in a state that still made Thorin shiver. Nobody cared for the volunteers and those who had to watch those things tear their friends to shreds walk around as if nothing had ever happened.

Nobody cared for those who had to deal with the fact that a zombie lived in their house while not knowing _who_ it really was.

The smell of roast and fried vegetables met Thorin as he entered the living room after putting his shoes in a corner. Dís must have cooked today then, he’d nearly forgotten. In the house he and his sister shared, Thorin usually stayed in his own set of small rooms, cooking for himself too, when she was busy. Fíli had been able to prepare his own food for years now, so Thorin didn’t have to take care of his nephew either. Still, they were a family and family time included eating dinner together. Even if it sometimes was tense and uncomfortable.

Dís was arranging the food on the plates as Thorin walked in, and she only gave him a brief glance.

“The table is already set, but you can get some water and juice out of the fridge.”

Thorin obeyed, as always when he was in his sister’s domain. He got the carton and bottle out and walked over to the table, set for three but with four chairs pulled close, as always when they ate together. Fíli came down from upstairs as his mother brought the food. He was glancing at his phone with a worried frown, and as he put it away in a pocket and spotted Thorin, the frown deepened. Thorin tried a small smile, but he knew there was no use. He missed the days when his nephew could look at him with no suspicion in his eyes. As if Thorin wasn’t trying to do his best.

Kíli was the last to come down, as always, and he sat down with a cheerful smile. Thorin did his best not to tense up, as he always did when seeing Kíli these days. His younger nephew was pale, even under a layer of cover-up mousse, his fingertips were sickly white where it had already rubbed off or where he’d not covered it up enough.

It pained Thorin to see him like this. Pained him to know _what_ he was.

The dinner was nice, and Thorin even managed to taste what he ate. He listened to Fíli and Kíli discuss some tournament that was coming up, and how they both wanted to walk down to the sports hall later. Dís made comments here and there, but Thorin wasn’t even sure what to say. While Dís, Fíli and him were eating the dinner, Kíli had a notebook in front of him. He wrote lyrics and music down in it, or doodled trees and rocks when he was distracted. He could not eat, wasn’t even supposed to try like any PDS sufferer, but Dís had suggested he bring something to do with his hands. Kíli did like family dinners, but he also did feel left out with nothing to do.

Thorin was torn over the sketches. When Kíli had died in winter he had accepted it, braced himself against the pain and had done his best to support his sister and nephew. It was not easy losing a twin or a son, and though Kíli had been like his own child, he also had focused on supporting his loved ones. That was what he could do after all, to not feel helpless.

Then the rising had happened, Kíli’s grave had been open and now… Years later everything was forgotten and forgiven by the south apparently. Dís had gone to educate herself and now was officially able to treat and take care of PDS sufferers’ needs. Kíli had returned to them, smiling just the way he had when he was _Kíli_ , a bag full of medicine and cover-up things on his back.

Thorin wanted to believe that his dear nephew was back. But the dead did not return. He had accepted that. He had made his peace with it. The boy sitting at his table and living in Kíli’s old room could not possibly be his Kíli. That didn’t happen.

But Kíli hugged his mother and joked around with Fíli, complained that he was doomed to be the youngest forever and that he’d never get to see how he’d look as a gruff bearded man like most of his uncles and cousins. Kíli listened to his old dusty mix tapes and drew the things he’d liked to before, played on his guitar and played pranks.

It was so easy to believe that he was Kíli after all, but Thorin remembered him pale and dead too well, as he did remember the twisted black and white faces of the monsters trying and succeeding to kill…

“-that new doctor from Hobbiton,” Dís was saying then, glancing at Thorin, and he realized that everyone was staring at him.

He looked from one to the other, unsure of what they had asked.

“You met him, didn’t you?” Dís asked. She hadn’t been at the hospital today, but she probably had heard of the arrival anyway, as well as hearing that Thorin had gone to meet him. Information was spread quickly in this town.

Thorin nodded and put his knife away, poking at the greens on his plate with his fork.

“He’s a strange one,” he just said, “I’m not sure what to think of him.”

“You wouldn’t know how to tell whether he’ll be good at his job, do you?” Of course Dís would be interested at that, but Fíli was watching Thorin as well.

“I barely talked enough for that. But I don’t like his attitude. What he thinks we need for _help_ , _who_ he thinks needs help…”

He saw how Fíli tensed a little, and there was a warning gleam in Dís’ eyes. Thorin shook his head slightly. He knew they’d think he was about to say something against the Risen. He knew that Kíli might need someone to talk, but he seemed so fine with everything. Less traumatized than more than half the town at least. Even so…

“He’s from the south and he didn’t live through any of the things we did up here,” Thorin explained. “He’s from the area where everything was a piece of cake. How is one like that supposed to understand or even help _anyone_ up here?”

Fíli relaxed again and Dís turned to finish her meal. Kíli either had ignored the tension or hadn’t noticed. If he was anything like he used to be, he probably hadn’t caught on to the brief moment at all.

They finished their dinner and Dís called Kíli to help her with the washing-up. Fíli slipped away and got his phone back out, glancing at it with an absent-minded frown. Thorin was left to do what he wanted for now, and he remembered that there probably was some game on some channel. The clatter of a teapot was heard from the kitchen and he walked past it.

Kíli walked out just when Thorin was there, lips moving in soundless singing and his hand moving as if he was playing his guitar. Just as if he was real.

He stopped when he noticed his uncle, a sudden uncertainty on his face. He knew of how the former HVF thought of the Risen, and though it usually didn’t bother him at all, he was nervous around Thorin sometimes. He had always wanted his approval after all.

Thorin took a step to the side to let him pass in the narrow hallway, and Kíli walked past quickly, hand already returning to moving to his music.

“Kíli,” Thorin didn’t know what made him speak up, but his nephew turned around, face so pale in the light of the hallway. Nearly completely wrong.

“If you want,” he said, struggling with the words, “Maybe we can play together sometime. You and your brother and me.”

Kíli stared at him wide eyed for a moment, then he smiled.

“Sure!”

He turned and walked towards the stairs up, just like that, as if it wasn’t anything special. As if they hadn’t played together in years. As if Thorin still wasn’t struggling to decide whether Kíli could even possibly be human the way he was now.

Thorin sighed and went to sit down in front of the telly. Some game was indeed on, but he didn’t even pay attention to who was playing. His thoughts were occupied by the endless question of whether his nephew was truly back, and now also the uncertainty of how that new shrink in town would impact on everyone’s mood.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nori finally makes an appearance

What did he remember from before? Nothingness, blurs of colours that could not possibly be real. The sky had turned pain-red and then pitch-black before everything was too much and too bright and _hurt_.

His memories where only fear and the need to run, to run as fast as he could and never ever get caught.

The need to run had its roots deep deep down in all of his memories and thoughts and feelings so it must have been there forever. It was the only thing there when he realized that his eyes were open and blind to anything, where before it had been pale dark and pain. There was hunger in him, where he was sure his flesh had torn apart – what else could hurt this much.

Hunger and then overwhelming panic as he could not move, as his hands clawed at anything, the need to run and get out and appease his hunger controlling each of his jerky movements. Splinters and dirt fell on him and he was sure he must suffocate but he did not need the air he missed so much when he remembered that he needed it. The hunger drowned it out, the hunger and the need to fill his stomach and the fear, the fear.

The rain and darkness and _air_ were so welcome to him when his fingers reached up through the soft loose soil. The thunderstorm and darkness of the surface were a blessing as he climbed up, rain washing off the dirt that had fallen on his face.

He wasn’t alone, everyone was rising, heading down to where they’d find meat, where they could hunt and fill their stomachs, to get rid of that painful hunger. Rise up, feeling the soil give in under his shoes until he found his footing and could finally stand and leave the gaping hole behind him.

Rise and hunt with the others, do what he had to do to survive, get his teeth into soft nourishing flesh, join the others and prey on… prey…

But _he_ was the prey?!

He’d ran, he’d been here, in a forest, so helpless, sharp eyes around him, closing in, fearing for his _life_ and others meant _death_ even if the hunger would surely mean that too. The others were worse.

Turning on his heels, running, _trying_ to run, slow and stuff with his limbs much too stubborn to just run away, like a nightmare, far away from the others, in the opposite direction, to the forest. The forest was safe, the forest had no food but he was no prey there, he could hide, he would live if he reached it, he would have lived if he had just reached the forest. Rain disappeared the dark and trees looming in the storm were green and it was daylight, the fear so much more intense as he tried to get to the forest East of his town. Breath coming hard and his heartbeat so loud in his ears that it sounded like shots fired from a shotgun-

*

Nori woke and the crumbling beige paint of the ceiling was all he saw. No trees, no storms. If he still had a heartbeat it would be drumming in his head now, but like this he was simply lying on the narrow bed, calm, no sweat making his shirt stick to overheated skin as he tried to recover from shock. Really, one might have thought that he’d just woken from a peaceful nap. Marvellous really, a true perk of being dead and drugged all the time.

Stars danced behind his eyes as Nori slowly sat up, the phantom pain of a headache making him wince briefly. It was gone soon, the side-effects of his medicine showing their face. Neurotriptyline did that to people, according to the many doctors that had looked Nori over again and again. Brain ways restoring themselves, memories returning…

They’d changed the dosage several times by now, the side-effects as well. The nightmares were less sharp now, rare and he recovered quickly, though they also lasted longer and for some reason memories of the last few hours of his life mingled into what used to be just dreaming of rising. Anything to function though, to not be a weird monster that tried to feast on brains.

“We’re just their lab rats,” Nori’s cellmate Steps had said. He’d always been a cranky sort, and most others joked that it was because his first life had ended after he fell of a ladder.

Funnily enough Steps was less cranky when people addressed him so. Perhaps it was because the clinic (prison, lets be honest here) had a clear divide in how people treated you. Hundreds of dead walking zombies were locked away from the outer world, were treated and then overseen by soldiers and psychologists alike. The living were so awfully polite and mindful in their annoying group therapy sessions, or full of thinly veiled suspicion in case of the soldiers. Steps was only ever Steps to the other undead, the living doctors went pale and wide-eyed when they thought they might insult or upset their patients. He was always Bob or Mr O’Donnel to those. The dead did not care, the dead made fun of each other when they could.

Nori had been a number when his mind was too hazy to even understand words properly and he could only groan low in his throat, when the medicine forced into his cold dead veins was still barely working. He was Rivers up until he was deemed acceptable to be treated as a proper PDS sufferer, complete with polite and kind doctors, no restraints on his face and hands, and group sessions and roommates where they had cots and no soldier watching them warily.

A few times the kind-faced nurses had tried to call him by the name in his files, but Nori refused to listen. It was one of the more harmless quirks the undead had, and though the nurses generally had no patience for non-PDS specific annoyances they were fine with that. 

Nori was calm and submissive through all of the treatment, as the others might call it. He listened to what he was told by the doctors, he did not step out of line and he tried not to make anyone nervous. He did whatever he was told immediately, barely even wincing when he was poked and prodded and injected with things he’d never have let anywhere near him when he was alive. He spoke of what he felt when he was assigned to therapy, explaining things as well as he could though he did not wish to speak to anyone who didn’t need to know.

The group therapy sessions were alright and Nori listened to what the others said, but if he couldn’t get anything out of telling people what he _felt_ he would not do so. They did not need to know how he felt when he died, or about rising or being a monster. They didn’t even really need to know who might be waiting for him or not.

Thankfully this particular thing passed as ‘human’ enough that the doctors didn’t note that down as a sign of him healing badly. Nori lied occasionally, dodged questions and sometimes he had to fight back the urge to insult or joke around in ways that would get him into trouble.

The institution he’d stayed in ever since he’d been captured as a rabid brainless thing wasn’t that much different from how a prison must be. Not that much different from teachers and relatives sneering down on him for being who he was. Nori knew well enough how to duck his head and do what was expected, even if he didn’t want to. Even if he knew that this was for everyone’s benefit. He’d always been stupid about these things, but now he had little choice.

It had paid off after all. He had gotten a friendly clap on his shoulder and the permission to return home.

Nori had said goodbye to all the pale faces he’d grown used to and had been put in one of the soldiers’ armoured vans. He’d not really watched where they were driving, the only thing he could see of the outside where fences and gates and endless treetops. Afterwards Nori had been released in front of a big old building that looked a little like fancy private hospitals far off from the rest of the world must be like, only older and less top notch fancy technology and maintained with less care. What did he know though; he’d never been to one.

There was a visitor centre and common rooms and kitchens, but Nori had not cared so he’d just been shown to his room. Cold and lonely as it was Nori was sure that he might have hated staying there as a living being. He was dead though, and who cared for one night?

He’d slept there, endured his nightmares, and now it was just as cool as the day before.

Nori sat on the narrow bed and looked out of the window. Behind the old brown curtains the day was bright and grey, on the sunny side of ‘maybe it’ll rain’. The nightmare’s impressions faded slowly and finally Nori felt collected enough to glance around.

There was a radiator on a wall, and Nori wondered whether he might have kept the room warm after all, though it was too late now. A small bag of the things he’d need in his new second life stood on the dressing table in a corner. Apart from that and the bed there only was a small drawer, empty as far as Nori knew. But on it was a plastic bag with his old belongings. He hadn’t dared look in it yet, unsure of what he would find.

But there was no time to waste with moping on the bed. He was going home. He needed to prepare for that.

Nori got up from the bed and stretched, feeling the strange stiffness of his limbs ease away to what felt right. The first thing he was supposed to do every morning was to inject the medicine. Since he had insisted on doing it by himself that required some fumbling with loading the injection gun and then try to find the right angle to press it against the hole at the very bottom of his neck. It was a little strange to think of it being there for the shots, but it wasn’t nearly as unnerving as Nori had feared it would be when he’d first gotten to see it in a mirror. A brief wave of dizziness hit him but then it was over and Nori was fine for another day.

Sitting down at the table he braced himself for the contents of the smaller bag. Another thing he was supposed to do, but this time the only benefit was to fit in and not to feel out of place among the living. As if Nori hadn’t been out of place nearly anywhere when he was alive as well. The tin of cover up mousse was big and white and Nori just knew that it was the worst thing for trying to pass as living. It was a crème of only one shade, meant to cover his hands and face and his entire neck to hide the corpse-like hue of his skin. They’d given him one of the paler shades as he’d requested, and still it was darker than Nori’s skin had been.

Quick practiced swipes covered his hands and wrists, and the skin on his head and neck. Nori hated the look of it. It seemed as if he’d used a bad foundation or had spent too much time on a sunbed. It also hid the few freckles on his nose and Nori quite liked those about his appearance. Next came the contact lenses, which he probably hated even more. They were uncomfortable to put in, and they hid the white frayed eyes all undead shared. They made eyes look normal, how they were among the living. The only two colours were brown and blue though, in the simplest hue, and Nori had been vain about his own eyes. They were nice in their colour, and he’d been told so by others as well. The blue did not suit him as far as he was concerned.

Well, at least his hair was soft and long as always, with no changes to how it looked like. Nori brushed it out carefully until it shone, and tied it into a neat braid. It was nearly like being at home again, alive and how he was supposed to be. 

When he looked at the mirror he kind of looked alive again. His skin tone was off, too even and unnatural, but Nori knew he could recreate a natural look if he had more shades and actual make up. Tiny imperfections of his skin were covered by the mousse, freckles, slim scars and crinkles he used to have when he laughed. The things PDS sufferers were told to do so they might return to their life perfectly all served to ruin what Nori had considered as a sign of life. He didn’t know if he might ever feel like himself like this, but he barely could bring himself to care. The hospital, the seemingly endless time he’d spent locked away and unsure of anything had pushed all reality and the outside world out of his mind. 

The bag with his old belongings was the first actual proof of ever having led that other life Nori had been given. And he hadn’t even dared opening it until now.

It was very much like being let out of prison, with the bag containing everything Nori had when he was captured as a rabid. It must have been cleaned a little, but the first thing Nori saw when he started pulling things out was how there still were bits of dried mud on the dark jeans. He didn’t know what he was expecting to find as he slowly got out the clothes. A suit maybe. An ugly uncomfortable thing, because his distant relatives might have taken over preparing the funeral. Nori didn’t know what his brothers were doing, or what they had thought at the time, but they must have taken good care of him. The jeans weren’t his favourite but he knew they could pass as nearly formal wear. The leather jacket was a surprise, and Nori had to take a few moments of just touching it and feeling the familiar material under his hands.

It was so strange to think that Dori had bothered with this, that he had made sure Nori would have these things. That he would have taken care of these things for someone who was dead and wouldn’t even know of this kindness. There was a moment of guilt for having died in the first place, but Nori pushed it aside. He hadn’t meant to after all. 

The boots were familiar as well, but the shirt was new, though Nori thought it was something he would have worn. A waste, that. Or maybe not, since he did have a use for it again. It all fitted him perfectly when he got dressed and Nori had to remind himself that being dead wouldn’t have changed his body size at all. The reflection looking back at him from the mirror was exactly the one who’d looked back at the morning he’d last been alive. If you squinted. And didn’t pay attention to the slight tenseness in his stance. He still looked nearly like a living human, but it wasn’t like how _he_ used to be.

Nori sighed and turned away from the mirror. There were rumours spread in the hospital, about how much the risen were hated on the outside. How even the nurses and doctors sometimes glanced at them with suspicion. How they had to be careful about never seeming dead to anyone, not looking out of place. Nori didn’t doubt that things would be difficult, but he always preferred to see for himself. Which he would get to do, once he was out.

Somebody knocked at the door, breaking Nori’s train of thought.

“Nori, are you ready? You should come out with me in five minutes.”

“Yes, hang on,” Nori called back.

He was brought to this new place so that he could return home. Maybe it was so that the living visitors didn’t have to drive to the fortress of a hospital, maybe it was to fool family members into thinking that their undead loved ones were treated in a pretty and idyllic environment. Nori couldn’t care less, he only tried to figure out what he felt about going home in general. Anxiety? Hope?

He checked his pockets out of habit, not really expecting to find anything in his pants or jacket. They would have taken out anything that shouldn’t be buried, and of course none of his pocket knives would be there. The last Nori checked was the breast pocket of the jacket, not really paying much attention anymore, as he never put anything in that. But his fingers brushed over a cool rough surface and made him pause.

Nori hadn’t put anything in it, and the way the pocket was sewn he doubted that anything could get in on accident. Who would have put it in instead then? Had his brainless self picked something up? Probably not, why would he even?

Curious Nori pulled the thing out of his pocket, revealing the leather band of a necklace. His throat felt tight by the time he dared to look at the pendant. He already knew what it was. He’d always worn it, or kept it on his bedside table at least, never letting it get too far away from him. Nori hadn’t worn it the day he died though, and he hadn’t hoped to see it again, or the one who’d made it for him.

It was the sharp and elegant shape of a magpie, the eyes and details on beak and feathers made with loving detail, smooth to the touch in some places and rough in others. Surrounded by a knot pattern as a frame it was just small enough for Nori to curl his hand into a fist around it.

They had put it into his jacket for his funeral. They had known he’d have wanted it, if he could have _any_ say in this kind of thing. They hadn’t tried to take it away despite what it meant to him or to how his family saw him.

Nori was sure that he’d start crying if he could, and he was nearly fine with admitting that to himself.

The knock sounded again, a little harder than before.

“’ll be right there,” Nori called, displeased that he hadn’t noticed the time.

He quickly wrapped the necklace around his wrist and secured it there, hidden by his sleeve but still loose enough to slide into his hand and hold it.

Outside the friendly psychologist of the week was waiting for Nori, smiling encouragingly. He’d prepared them all for this, had cheerfully explained that this was a wonderful second chance, that there was nothing to be afraid of and how much their families would love to welcome them back.

Nori hadn’t snorted at that, though he wanted to. He knew there were families who’d gladly kick him out right away, even if he were alive, and he knew some of the others thought the same away. He was nervous though, never sure of how his brother would react to him. He’d never been sure when he was alive either. He found no solace in the fact that he was not to blame for dying, or rising again. Somehow it still felt like something he should have prevented.

He was led through the sunlit corridors, thankfully in silence. The tightness in Nori’s chest and stomach felt like being sick before an exam or when knowing that he was in big trouble. It was a little weird, considering that his body was dead and there was nothing in his stomach to make him feel this way.

They reached a door made of frosted glass and Nori’s guardian opened it, revealing a foyer behind.

“Mr Rivers? He is here now,” the guardian said and Nori had no time to prepare himself further as a hand gently but firmly shoved him through the door and towards the only man waiting there.

Dori looked older somehow, more lines were visible on his pretty face. He also looked as if nothing had happened at all in those years; hair combed neatly the same way as always, the warm brown coat he’d had for years looking as if he’d only bought it yesterday and generally Dori was dressed in the finest clothes either of the brothers had ever liked. He stood with his back bent a little, nibbling at the knuckles of his left hand in a nervous habit and his right tucked between his body and his left arm.

Nori froze as he saw him, and Dori straightened, eyes widening and uncertainty on his face. Neither said a word, just staring at each other.

Already his options flashed through Nori’s mind. Dori would not want one like him back in their house, and _his_ house, as they’d talked about moving out when Nori was still alive. He hopefully could hitch a ride, just a little bit, just to the closest town or the next bus stop, surely he could get a few coins somewhere. He didn’t need to eat or drink, Nori could survive on his own, go south where it was said to be nicer for PDS suffers than north, he could find a job, or steal, maybe he could figure out how to go by unnoticed by anyone, he could run before Dori _said_ that he was not welcome…

Dori’s lips quivered, the first change from the uncertainty, and his face twisted in pain. He reached out for Nori, taking a few steps, and Nori gave up on those thoughts and walked towards him. He didn’t expect for Dori to do more than touch him to make sure he was real, but when they were close enough Dori pulled him into a crushing hug.

There was a moment of worrying about his cover-up mousse staining Dori’s clothes but then Nori clung back, let himself be held and cradled and just thought of none of his concerns. Dori was holding him too tightly, hand petting Nori’s head and muttering something Nori couldn’t quite hear. He didn’t know where he’d end up, what would happen to him now or whether he’d be able to live outside again, whether they would go back to Erebor or somewhere else entirely.

It all didn’t matter though. He was going home.


End file.
